


Underscored

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, My first attempt at humor, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Pining John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock wearing makeup, Sherlock wearing women's lingerie, humor but not crack, john is flustered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is wearing makeup and women’s lingerie around 221B. John tries to stifle his reactions. As Sherlock continues to up the game, can John keep his cool or will he crack?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eyeliner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissDavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/gifts), [SincerelyChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/gifts).



> This is a little humorous fic for MissDavis and SincerelyChaos, for your continued help with my dark, dark fic. Thank you so much.

Sherlock came downstairs to answer the doorbell because Mrs. Hudson was out and John had forgot his keys. It was drizzling so John pushed past Sherlock quickly, wanting to be in the warm, dry foyer instead of on the cold, damp pavement. He trudged upstairs to shed his wet jacket before he raised his head and got a good look at his flatmate. And when he did…

John’s heart thumped into his ribcage so violently that he gasped aloud. At that gasp, Sherlock glanced sharply at his stunned flatmate and widened his eyes slightly. His eyes. His blue-green-gray eyes. His eyes that were underscored with black eyeliner.

Not too thick - just a very tasteful smudge of black eye pencil that started about a quarter of the way into Sherlock’s top lids, followed the outline of his amazing eyes and ended a millimeter or so from his tear duct. Drawn on with a medium-soft, thin black fine quality eyeliner pencil. John knew about the softness and width of the pencil from the many girlfriends he’d watched put on their makeup on the morning after. The quality - well, obviously if Sherlock was using it, the pencil would be fine quality.

After a heartbeat John realized he was standing somewhat stupidly just inside the door with his sodden jacket trailing from one had. He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment at being caught staring at his handsome friend then went into the kitchen and draped his coat over the back of a chair to dry. Sherlock followed and went to his experiment station on the table as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Got a case on?” John asked mildly.

Sherlock shook his head slightly and made the universal-negative-response ‘nnn-nhh’ sound through closed lips.

John didn’t quite know where to go from there. He didn’t want to insult Sherlock if his friend had decided to wear makeup. It wouldn’t exactly be out of character for Sherlock to put whatever he wanted on his face and not care a whit for what anyone else thought of it. And John thought the eye pencil was - well, a welcome improvement. Not improvement, really - more enhancement. Sherlock’s eyes were perfect just as they were but the black eyeliner certainly enhanced their already-amazing appearance. 

He realized he’d been standing behind the chair where he’d drapped his jacket with his arms dangling at his sides, staring openly at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice - lost in his slides and microscope as usual. John shook himself once and set about rummaging in the refrigerator for something to make for dinner. 

John was dicing a red pepper into small squares for stir fry when he asked mildly, “Working on a new disguise?”

Sherlock answered sharply without looking up. “I think that’s evident, John.” John stopped slicing and stared at Sherlock. Because, well. It was evident. Sherlock didn’t normally wear black eyeliner.

Sherlock glanced up with his kohl-rimmed eyes and went on, “I’m working on an experiment that may well provide the alibi an innocent man needs to avoid going to prison for murder. Do I look like I’m working on a disguise?”

John ducked his head to hide his grin behind his shoulder and continued chopping. Because - _yes_ , it did look to him like Sherlock was working on a disguise. He wondered if Sherlock had donned the eyeliner earlier for a disguise and forgotten it was even on his face. John chuckled under his breath at the thought of his brilliant flatmate going to brush his teeth at bedtime and realizing he’d been wearing eyeliner all day. 

With that thought to cheer him, John decided not to say anything about the eyeliner. He was sure he and Sherlock would have a good laugh about it later.


	2. Lipstick

John had worked a double shift and was tired as he trudged up the stairs toward home. He heard Sherlock’s violin more clearly the higher he climbed. Sherlock was standing at the window wearing pajama bottoms, tattered t-shirt and blue dressing gown; he faced outward toward the dim glow of streetlights. John knew from experience that Sherlock wasn’t actually looking out the window. He was looking inward, eyes unfocused, lost in the music as his bow flew over the delicate instrument: the violin solo from _Elgar: Salut D'Amour, Op. 12_ \- one of John’s favorites.

John sat his bag on the floor beside the door and hung his coat on its hook, He dropped onto the end of the sofa and laid his head back to listen; the tension of his 16 hour shift began to drain away. Sherlock transitioned seamlessly into another piece, a gentle, sweet tune that John didn’t recognize. He ended with a flourish and turned to lay the violin and bow on the desk. 

“Oh! John. Did I wake you?” Sherlock’s brows climbed toward his hairline in a genuine expression of surprise. His lips formed a surprised little “o” before he began speaking. His lips. His gorgeous, perfect lips. His beautiful, full lips. His _lips_ that were painted with dusky mauve lipstick. Lipstick. Sherlock was wearing _lipstick_.

John squinted a little. The only light in the room came from London’s everpresent illumination shining in the window. Maybe he was mistaken. Sherlock’s lips were naturally a pink-mauve shade. Perhaps they just looked darker in the dim light. _And why do I know so much about the normal color of Sherlock Holmes’ lips?_ John shook his head to clear the thought. He’d been mostly on his feet through a grueling double shift. He was physically weary, mentally drained and hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. His defenses were down. _And why do I need defenses against thoughts of my flatmate’s lips?_

Perhaps it was time he go on up to bed.

When John realized he’d been staring at Sherlock with his mouth hanging open for approximately 45 seconds, he snapped it shut so hard his teeth clicked together. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head as if to say ‘problem?’ John shook his head slightly and sighed.

“Sherlock, I just arrived home from work. I took a double shift at the surgery. Remember, I told you about it yesterday?” John didn’t even try to keep irritation out of his tone. He wondered if he should snap something about lipstick just to see Sherlock’s reaction.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Sherlock replied without missing a beat. He reached the kitchen in four strides. John heard glasses clinking as Sherlock rummaged around in the cabinets then a quiet gurgling as liquid hit glass. 

John reached over and clicked on the floor lamp behind the sofa. Sherlock reentered the living room with a tumbler in each hand, three fingers of dark liquid in each. He had to lean slightly forward to hand a tumblr to John over the width of the coffee table, affording John a clear look at his mouth. His mouth. His _mouth_ that appeared to be perfectly outlined in dusky mauve lip pencil and glazed with creamy matching deep mauve lipstick. John’s hand hovered in midair as he stared dazedly at Sherlock’s perfectly-made-up mouth. 

Sherlock gave him a quizzical half-smile and moved his arm to fit the tumbler into John’s forgotten hand. John blinked, leaving his eyes shut for several heartbeats to give himself time to regain his composure. When he lifted his lids again, Sherlock was seated in his chrome-and-leather armchair, one ankle crossed casually over the other knee. The blue dressing gown flowed out from his shoulders like a waterfall in the light from the lamp; the mauve paint glossing his lips picked up blue undertones from it.

Sherlock lifted his glass to his (beautifuly made up) lips and took a sip. He lowered the tumbler to his lap and glanced down, giving the liquid inside it a little secret smile. He wiped a smudge of lipstick off the rim with his thumb. 

John goggled. Sherlock had just casually wiped lipstick from the rim of his glass as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence at 221B. John took a large gulp of scotch and closed his eyes as it burned its way down. Should he mention the lipstick? He opened his eyes to see Sherlock take a long draw from his glass then once again swipe away the trace of lipstick from the rim with his thumb. 

The silence stretched to a point beyond companionable. Well, maybe it was companionable for Sherlock - he never seemed to mind long stretches of silence. But John was feeling antsy with the prolonged silence. He cleared his throat, intending to say something - _anything_ \- to break the awkward stillness. 

Before John could quite form a thought, Sherlock slammed down his empty glass, jumped up and grabbed his violin and bow again. He began to play a jaunty song, some sort of country folk song that John vaguely recognized from May Day parties in primary school. It evoked a dim memory in John of holding a ribbon and dancing around a pole with his classmates.

John looked at the lipstick smudge on Sherlock’s empty glass. He glanced up at Sherlock, whose glossy mauve mouth was curved into a sly smile. John gave a grin in return. He felt like he’d shared some type of secret with his flatmate but he didn’t quite understand what it was. It was easier to just let his head drop back against the sofa, close his eyes and listen to Sherlock play than to try to make sense of what had just transpired between his friend and him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a beautiful performance of Elgar's Salut d'amour, Op.12, in case you're interested:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXLOF-z5Zlk


	3. Mascara

Sherlock Holmes had nice eyes. Beyond nice - beautiful eyes. _Stunning_ eyes. That fact was never in dispute. But his eyelashes, while they were dark and long, were not particularly thick, nor where they stunning. They did a nice enough job framing his unique eyes but they were not remarkable in and of themselves.

That’s why John found himself squinting across the kitchen table as he and Sherlock ate a casserole that Mrs. Hudson had brought up for dinner. Sherlock’s eyelashes seemed to be considerably thicker, and darker, and longer, and more … attractive … than usual. John was trying to ascertain if Sherlock was wearing mascara, or false eyelashes, or if he was just imagining the whole thing - without appearing to stare. 

Sherlock was talking but John couldn’t quite tune into the words. His attention was too focused on Sherlock’s eyelashes. 

“So you’ll come along?” Sherlock glanced up to catch John staring. 

John, flustered to realize that he’d missed the last three minutes of conversation, quickly agreed. “Alright, just let me clear these plates and put away the leftovers first.”

Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion. “I think you have plenty of time. It’s not until next Tuesday.”

John cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment. “Yeah, right. Meant I’ll clear up after dinner. I think its my turn.”

Sherlock looked back down at his dinner plate. John angled his face toward the table and studied Sherlock by glancing up through his own eyelashes. Yes, Sherlock’s eyelashes were definitely enhanced by some outside agent. John had watched Harry apply mascara enough times when they were teens to recognize that Sherlock must have used some astronomically expensive brand and applied it with an expert hand. John thought back to Harry’s drugstore-bought mascara that left her eyelashes clumped together and made her look like she had black starfish around her eyes. No, Sherlock’s eyes in no way resembled that. His eyelashes looked soft, even touchable. Just thicker, darker and longer than normal. And more attractive. Each individual lash was darkened to a midnight-coal-ink black. The lashes stood individually with no clumps but the overall effect was that Sherlock’s lashes were now more abundant and as thick and curled as his hair.

John realized he was caught when Sherlock said his name rather sharply. “John!” John realized it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had addressed him. Even his dickhead flatmate made an attempt at civil engagement before using _that_ tone.

“Wa...what?” John mumbled, feeling stupid. He felt the heat of a crimson flush creeping up from his collar. And Sherlock, the man who never missed a tell, would probably deduce from it that there was also heat spreading through his groin. John was glad they were eating at the kitchen table for once instead of sitting on the sofa or holding takeout boxes in their laps while seated in their chairs as they usually did. John shifted subtly to try to help the growing unease in his trousers. He was sure Sherlock picked up on the move. Sherlock was still staring at him expectantly. John sighed, rolled his eyes and asked wearily, “What, Sherlock?”

“You’re distracted tonight. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you? But it’s not a new girlfriend. Something else, you have sex on your mind but it’s muddled up with…”

“Shut up, Sherlock! Quit deducing me.” John clutched his plate and rose quickly. He turned immediately to the sink and pulled out the bin from the cabinet underneath then scraped the remains of Mrs. Hudson’s delicious chicken casserole into it. He’d like to finish his portion but needed to do something to cover his embarrassment and confusion. _Damn Sherlock and his stunning eyelashes!_

John decided he may as well wash up the accumulated dishes mouldering in the sink. It would give him something to do until the trouble in his pants resolved. He rinsed each plate and glass and set it aside on the countertop. When the sink was clear he scrubbed out the dishpan and filled it with hot soapy water. By the time he’d rinsed the last plate and stacked it in the drainer his libido was under control and he felt better able to face his mascara-enhanced friend. 

John turned to find Sherlock’s chair at the kitchen table empty. The git had left his plate and glass, of course. John glanced past the half-open pocket doors to find the living room empty. Sherlock must have retired to his bedroom. John sighed, partly in frustration and partly in relief. 

He felt oddly unable to cope with whatever Sherlock was up to these past few days. Perhaps an evening spent away from the maddening man would help John to clear his head.


	4. Rouge

Lestrade called them out on a case early in the morning of John’s day off from the clinic. Sherlock had been up and dressed in street clothes instead of lounging about in pyjamas and dressing gown as was his usual habit, almost as if he was presentient of Lestrade’s call. They were out the door and in the backseat of a cab less than five minutes after Sherlock thumbed END on his mobile.

John grumbled about the early morning call that had come before he’d even had his morning coffee. “Don’t know why these bloody criminals can’t keep to …to ...”

John had taken to looking at Sherlock obliquely during the past few days and even tried to avoid looking at him at all when possible. It made life a little awkward at 221B - but John had to do whatever it would take to avoid stirring up feelings he’d rather not face in relation to his friend. That’s why he stuttered and then fell silent in the middle of a sentence when he glanced at Sherlock and noticed the soft morning light shining through the dirty window of the cab set Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones aglow with a pale coral sheen. 

Sherlock glanced at him sharply. “John?” 

John shook his head and tried to continue but the circuit between his brain and his vocal cords seemed to be malfunctioning. Sherlock just rolled his eyes as if to say “Whatever” and turned to look out the window. 

The cheek John could still clearly see, even though Sherlock was turned three quarters of the way toward the window, was as breathtaking as ever. Cheekbone that seemed chiseled from finest marble, skin as white as milk but ....

...today something was a bit different. The cheekbone that Michelangelo's David would envy was even more well-defined than usual. A very faint wash of coral coloring tinted its contours, as subtle as it was beautiful - nothing brash or obvious about it. Sherlock still looked like _Sherlock_ , just enhanced to look even more ethereal.

Whoever had smoothed the color on Sherlock’s flawless skin used an expert hand. Even this close it looked naturally diffuse, with no harsh lines delineating where the color began and ended. John thought back to girlfriends over the years who had used various powders and creams to try to sculpt their cheekbones; Sherlock’s skin didn’t display any such heavy handed, obvious makeup. Sherlock’s cheek looked like _Sherlock_ , only better. Softer, more shimmery - even glowing. 

John hadn’t realized he was leaning toward Sherlock to inspect his cheekbone more closely until Sherlock turned toward him and their noses nearly collided. Sherlock’s eyes widened in reaction to finding John so close to his side. John noticed how intensely green they looked in the pale morning light. John had studied medicine but taken a few introductory art classes as electives in uni. He remembered from basic color theory that green and red are across from each other on the color wheel, meaning that the colors, when used in combination, make each other appear more intense. And coral, being a shade of red-orange, worked with Sherlock’s strange, changeable eyes to make them appear bright, clear green. 

John swallowed and sat back in his seat to put more distance between Sherlock and himself. He angled his body toward the cab door to hide his obvious reaction to Sherlock’s enhanced appearance. He looked away, out the window, to avoid Sherlock’s knowing gaze. _Damn Sherlock and his ridiculous cheekbones anyway!_

After a while he glanced back to find Sherlock smirking out his own window like the cat that ate the canary. John still didn’t know what his mad flatmate was up to, but Sherlock seemed very pleased about it. And John wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to bear it.


	5. Lace stockings

John was in the kitchen preparing a sandwich when Sherlock finally emerged from his bedroom near noon, fully dressed and groomed. Sherlock had been out when John got home from the clinic the previous evening and still hadn’t made an appearance when John retired. If he was working a case, it was something he’d not seen fit to invite John to share. And that left John feeling slightly grumpy and very out of sorts - too much so to enjoy his second day in a row off from work. “Morning, sunshine,” John snarked at Sherlock.

“Morning,” Sherlock answered politely. He reached over John to retrieve the coffee can. John _hated_ when Sherlock did that, so it did nothing to improve John’s mood. Sherlock remained silent as he peeled a coffee filter from the stack, placed it in the coffeemaker and scooped in grounds. “Excuse me,” he said and John stepped aside to allow Sherlock access to the sink to fill the carafe. 

Normally John would offer to make a sandwich for Sherlock since he had all the supplies already out, but he felt just on edge enough today to be a prat about it. He settled his sandwich on a plate and cut it diagonally then sauntered into the living room, leaving the ham, bread, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on the counter. If Sherlock wanted a sandwich he could bloody well prepare it himself. 

John dropped heavily into his chair and set the plate on his side table. He belatedly realized he hadn’t brought a drink but he didn’t want to go back into the kitchen while Sherlock was still pottering about. Sherlock solved his dilemma by silently sitting a coffee mug beside the plate on John’s table before taking a seat in his armchair. John glanced up, shocked at the thoughtful gesture. Sherlock hadn’t made coffee for him since the time he’d tried to drug him at Grimpon Village.

John shot Sherlock a skeptical look and took a sip. Just the way he liked it - milk but no sugar. That must mean he was clear to drink it - Sherlock hadn’t tried to drug him. Unless… “Sherlock, where did this milk come from? We’re out.”

Sherlock finished a sip and lowered his mug. “Mrs. Hudson left a jar in the fridge with a little milk. She knows you like it for your coffee. Makes her feel good to take care of us.” He casually crossed one knee over the other, leaving his huge foot shod in ridiculously expensive black oxford hanging in the air between them then steepled his fingers below his chin in his Mind Palace pose. 

John took a bite of his sandwich and glanced at his flatmate’s face, feeling safe to sneak a peek since Sherlock’s eye were closed. His face was totally innocent of makeup today. John released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Then his gaze swept over Sherlock’s leg on the way back to his plate. Sherlock’s leg. The upper leg in his crossed-leg pose. The leg that was swinging slightly side-to-side. The leg that showed a tantalizing glimpse of black lace stocking in the space between the hem of his trousers and his black shoe. _Black. Lace. Stocking._

Sherlock was sitting casually in his chair, bobbing his foot and drinking coffee. In lace stockings. In _black_ lace stockings. _Sherlock,_ world’s only Consulting Detective, was drinking black coffee with two sugars and chatting about their caretaker-landlady-not-housekeeper while wearing black lace stockings under his trousers. Something went *thunk* in John’s brain. He dropped the sandwich onto the plate in his lap and stared openly at Sherlock’s lace-clad ankle. Sherlock either pretended not to notice or was so lost in his thoughts he truly didn’t notice.

The lace-clad ankle John studied was shapely, slender without seeming bony. The bones on both sides were prominent but not knobby. The tendons curved gracefully above the top of Sherlock’s black dress shoe and swelled to the start of a shapely calf before disappearing into the charcoal gray trousers. John glanced down at Sherlock’s other foot where it was planted on the floor. Yep, black lace stocking peeking out of the thin space between trouser hem and shoe. John narrowed his eyes to take in more details and noticed a repeating pattern of roses in the lace. Some areas were shaded in with more stitches than others, creating shaded petal details in the flowers. 

John could only imagine those stockings above the ankle - black lace covered well-muscled calf, black lace hugging Sherlock’s trim knees, black lace stretched thin over taut muscular thighs. All hidden by conservative charcoal gray trousers. What a wonderland under those yards of worsted wool!

John shivered as he picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Sherlock was still lost in thought. Good thing, too. He would have immediately picked up on John’s state of distress if he’d been engaged in his surroundings. John munched away until only crumbs remained on his pate. He quickly finished his coffee and, with a last lingering glance at Sherlock’s ankle, went to have a shower. He wasn’t sure if it would be a quick cold shower or a long, sensuous hot one, but he knew he needed to do something about the state of affairs south of his beltline before Sherlock emerged from his mind palace.


	6. Lace camisole

John was just finishing the breakfast dishes when Sherlock walked out of his room and down the hall while folding back his shirt cuffs. That wasn’t at all unusual. What was unusual was that Sherlock’s black dress shirt was unbuttoned to the fourth button. Sherlock never walked around the flat in a state of undress. Well, if you don’t count wrapped in a sheet. If you do count wrapped in a sheet, then Sherlock walked around the flat either fully dressed or fully undressed, but never semi-buttoned-up.

And even more unusual was what peeked out from the unbuttoned wedge at the neck of that black shirt. Not just creamy skin, or even chest hair, but black lace. A delicate hint of black lace stretched tight over firm pectoral muscles. Just a tantalizing scalloped edge lying flat against Sherlock’s chest, the dark hue contrasting beautifully with Sherlock’s milky white skin, high enough up his sternum to cover his sparse chest hair but low enough to be hidden if he only left two buttons undone, as was his usual habit.

John stood mesmerized, dishtowel in one hand and the other hanging uncertainly at his side; his mouth hung open in shock … or was it amazement? Sherlock, his “not really my area” flatmate, was wearing - what was it? - under his form-fitting black shirt. Was it a camisole? A lace tank top? A _brassiere_ , for god’s sake? Something he was quick to hide by hurriedly buttoning his third and fourth button. Then he slowly returned to his shirt cuffs, folding them precisely so they both fell at exactly the same spot just below the bend of his elbows. 

Apparently satisfied that his folded-back shirtsleeves met his compulsive need for symmetry, Sherlock at last glanced up at John. John found nothing remarkable in Sherlock’s expression. His face was as calm and blandly composed as it ever was. Whatever he was hiding under his shirt, Sherlock appeared not to notice that John had seen its presence. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, concern showing in his voice, probably over the fact that John was still standing semi-turned toward the sink and staring at him rather stupidly. 

John quickly snapped his mouth shut, flung the dishtowel over his shoulder and turned back toward the sink without answering. He gripped the edge of the sink and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves and will away the reaction in his trousers. He was not going to get aroused. He was not. He. Was. Not. Goddamn, too late. 

John made a show of grabbing the dishtowel off its perch and wiping out the sink, polishing the stainless steel until it gleamed. Still aroused and needing to do something to cover it, he moved on to polishing the faucet. Once the chrome faucet shone like a mirror, John moved on to polishing the stainless counter around the sink then scrubbed at water spatters on the tiled wall above the sink. By the time John’s composure was once again in place and it was once again safe for him to turn around, the sink and its surrounding area glowed like new.

While John wiped and polished, Sherlock made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. He kept up a monologue - something about a case - but John had trouble following him until Sherlock made to stand. “You want me to come along?” John asked, as calmly as he could under the circumstances.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow in John’s direction. “Isn’t that was I just said?” He sounded snapish, irritated that John hadn’t been paying attention to him while he described the potential case.

John blew out a breath through his teeth. The soft shushing sound calmed his nerves a little. He really had to start keeping a lid on his reactions to his flatmate. Sherlock had made it clear from the start that he wasn’t interested in John in a romantic capacity. Or a hookup capacity, John thought sadly. He thought he’d mastered his attraction to his quirky friend and put those feelings away. Their friendship worked for both of them and John didn’t want to do anything to endanger its future.

The day was hot, a blazing August sun raising the normal comfortable London temperature and humidity level to nearly unprecedented highs. Sherlock walked straight out the door without stopping to don his suit jacket, let alone his greatcoat. Skipping the greatcoat John could understand but he couldn’t remember a time Sherlock had ever left the flat without some type of jacket, be it his suit jacket or some other type of jacket, no matter how hot the weather. John ran toward the staircase to catch up, shaking his head the entire way to clear the confusion Sherlock had planted in his mind that morning.

He caught up with Sherlock at the kerb just as he put his arm up to hail a cab. His tight black dress shirt pulled even tighter by the motion, John could clearly see the outline of a scalloped low-cut camisole with the distinct outline of thin straps snaking over Sherlock’s shoulders. John swallowed hard, twice, and looked away. He stared at the door of the house across the street until a cab stopped for them. 

Sherlock got in first. John noticed that the tail of his tight black shirt pulled slightly out of the waistband of his dark gray worsted wool trousers as he bent over to crawl into the backseat. And in that thin void between waistband and dress shirt, John glimpsed black lace. Black lace. _Black. Lace._ Sherlock was wearing a black lace camisole underneath his black dress shirt as casually as John wore a white vest under his green-and-gold checked shirt. John swallowed again. And again. And a third time. Then he finally braced himself and followed Sherlock into the cab.

John tried to keep his eyes averted. He looked either through the windscreen or out the window on his side of the cab. Of their own volition, his traitorous eyes wandered again and again to Sherlock’s torso. His imagination filled in what his eyes had not yet fully seen - Sherlock’s body wrapped in a tight, stretchy black lace camisole. Tiny black lace straps bisecting his trim, muscular shoulders. Stretch black lace hiding his scant chest hair. Black lace roses covering each of his small, pink nipples. Black lace encasing the taut muscles of his abdomen, his almost-impossibly-narrow waist. Black lace dipping down to cover the thin line of auburn hair leading lower…

John shook his head sharply to divert his thoughts from the very dangerous path they’d headed down quite without his consent. Really, a man pushing 40 should have better control over salacious trains of thought. He’d never been this easily derailed when he was 20! John resolutely crossed his legs and glared out the side window with his face turned almost completely away from Sherlock.

He didn’t see the smirk reflected in the window on Sherlock’s side of the cab.


	7. Knickers

John got up early on his day off from the clinic and made a lovely omelet with mushrooms and Swiss cheese. He brewed a pot of the good coffee and settled in at the kitchen table to enjoy his breakfast at his leisure and peruse the morning papers. He hadn’t heard Sherlock come in the night before. He planned to enjoy having the flat to himself - maybe straighten up some of the clutter in the living room, catch up on the pile of dishes in the sink, then have a nap later.

He was surprised to hear rustling in Sherlock’s bedroom followed by the click of the latch when his door opened. John tipped his wooden chair back to glance down the hall. He saw Sherlock yawning and scratching his scalp, walking toward him down the hall wearing his purple dress shirt. The top three buttons were unbuttoned and the shirttails were …

... the only thing covering Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock was coming down the hall and into the kitchen without trousers. 

John’s senses spun with the vertigo of deja vu. He remembered another time, years ago, when Janine Hawkins had strolled out of that same bedroom wearing only a lavender dress shirt. Sherlock’s appearance today eerily echoed the scene that John had tried to delete from his memory. The hem of the purple shirt fell just to his hip crease and below it stretched at least a mile of legs.

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen and turned toward the worktop. He murmured a greeting and reached for a coffee mug on a high shelf. John’s gaze had returned to his newspaper but something out of place caught the corner of his eye as Sherlock reached high. Something _black_. Something black and _lacy_ hidden beneath his shirttail. Black lace trimmed _satin knickers_ , John could tell by the brief glimpse he was afforded.

John gasped and said “Sherlock,” but the word came out as a strangled squeak. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, his brow creased in concern. His torso twisted just the slightest bit, which caused his purple shirt to ride up an inch. An inch that revealed a glimpse of black, scalloped lace trim around the leg opening of Sherlock’s knickers. _Sherlock’s knickers_. Sherlock held John's eye for a moment, waiting for him to speak again. When John just gaped at him like a tuna out of water, Sherlock turned back to the coffee maker and calmly filled his mug and heaped in sugar.

He turned back around and leaned casually against the worktop, stirring his coffee and looking steadily into John’s eyes. John swallowed, cleared his throat twice, rubbed his chin with his right hand, then finally tried to give voice to Sherlock’s name again. He was a bit more successful the second time, managing to force it out on a breathy wheeze.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock replied, turning toward the sink and depositing the spoon in the already-overflowing dishpan. 

“What. Hrmmm. What are you wearing?” John’s voice gained a little strength but he still sounded like he’d run a half marathon.

Sherlock looked down at his torso. “This? You’ve seen this shirt dozens of times, John.” He raised his eyes and smirked into John’s.

John shook his head slightly. “And underneath? What is it you have there?” John’s face was crimson. He felt faint.

Sherlock grasped the shirt in both hands an inch or so above his waistline. He slowly drew up the hem while holding John’s eyes. Slowly, slowy, inch by inch, black satin knickers were revealed. The waistband and leg openings were trimmed in narrow black scalloped lace. Insets of familiar rose-patterned lace filled openings cut on either side. The center panel was solid black satin, straining to contain a very manly bulge. “This? Just my knickers.” Sherlock spoke as if he were bored by the conversation.

“Knickers? Satin knickers. And why would you be wearing that? For a case?” 

Sherlock placed his mug carefully on the kitchen table. He leaned over and placed both hands on the table, then leaned further until his nose was mere inches from John’s. His actions were slow and deliberate; he never broke eye contact. “Because, John, knickers are considerably less expensive than a billboard.” Sherlock tilted his head.

“Billboard?” John squeaked.

“I was beginning to think I’d have to take out a billboard to get your attention.” Sherlock swayed back slightly. His eyes twinkled.

John did the blinky thing that was normally Sherlock’s domain. “Get my attention,” he mouthed. No sound escaped from his suddenly-parched throat but Sherlock was an excellent lip reader.

Sherlock leaned in again again, nose millimeters from John’s. “Get. Your. Attention. John.” He hovered there, letting his eyes fall to John’s lips. His breath puffed warm against John’s mouth.

“But. I thought. Work. Thought you were married to your work?” John wheezed. 

Sherlock straightened his arms, putting more distance between them. “That was then. This is now, John.” 

And he smiled, a genuine smile that made his face light up. John couldn’t help but respond with his own broad, genuine smile. “I take that as a yes?” Sherlock asked.

“Wha.. yes to what?” 

“Yes to helping me get over my divorce. From my work.” 

John surged forward and grabbed Sherlock by the shirt front. He yanked, hard. They tumbled back toward his chair together. Sherlock sprawled in John’s lap but John didn’t release his fistful of purple silk. 

It was John’s turn to invade Sherlock’s space, letting his lips nearly graze Sherlock’s as he spoke. “I only have one thing to say,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Go put those stockings back on.”

Sherlock leaned back and smiled again. “Give me five minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know what comes next! FIVE MINUTES TO SEXYTIMES!


	8. Well put together

John leaned back and watched him go down the hall to his bedroom. Sherlock closed the bedroom door without a backward glance.

Five minutes. 

John had five minutes until … until what? He wasn’t really sure, but decided he’d better be ready for anything. He sprinted up the stairs to his room and snatched condoms and lube from the drawer of his bedside table and a clean pants from his dresser. He sniffed his armpit and decided a fresh shirt was also in order. He grabbed one from his wardrobe and thundered back downstairs, sliding down the hall on his stocking feet and into the bathroom. He slammed the door and ripped a buttonhole on his shirt in his haste to undress. 

Checking his watch, he saw that he had three and a half minutes left. He yanked the curtain aside and turned on the shower full-blast and hopped under the spray without waiting for it to warm up. John lathered his hair and soaped his body quickly while rinsing his hair, then hopped out just as the water started to warm and toweled off roughly. A time check told him he had about ninety seconds remaining. Stepping into his clean pants, then trousers, John decided to forgo socks and shoes. _He’d just be stripping them off in a few minutes anyway._

John brushed his teeth with one hand while trying to squirt cologne with the other; most of the spicy spray missed but he felt enough on his skin to know the endeavor hadn’t been a waste. He peeked at his watch - thirty seconds left. John swiped on deodorant as he gulped water from the tap, swished and spit. He wrestled into his shirt and grabbed a comb, dragged it quickly through his hair then stuffed the condoms and lube into his front trouser pocket. No time to fool with buttons - he rushed out of the bathroom and tripped to Sherlock’s door with shirt swirling behind him in an echo of Sherlock’s Belstaff. 

Sherlock’s door was still closed. Should he knock, or just walk in? John debated with himself for ten seconds before he decided _fuck it_ and threw the door open. It bounced off the wall; a small cloud of plaster dust puffed from behind the doorknob.

Sherlock was reclined on half a dozen white pillows in the center of the bed. He’d stripped off the duvet and his sheets were crisp white. His left knee was bent; his left wrist propped on it with an unlit cigarette dangling between his first two fingers. John strode into the room and stopped at the foot of the bed. His eyes wandered up the length of Sherlock’s body, starting at his black lace-clad feet - long, elegant, highly arched feet. Sherlock’s calf was well-muscled from all the running after criminals they did. John’s eyes lingered at mid-thigh, where the stockings ended in bands of dense black lace obviously designed to hold them in place. John forced his gaze quickly past the black lace knickers. He knew if he lingered long, he’d never finish his survey of the luscious creature posed before him.

The knickers stopped an inch below Sherlock’s prominent hipbones. A tantalizing slice of alabaster skin showed between the waistband of the knickers and the hem of the black lace camisole. A thin line of sable hair ran down the middle of that thin slice of skin and into the knickers’ waistband. John licked his lips at the sight then let his gaze wander over Sherlock’s torso. Black rose-patterned lace stretched tight, hugging his flat stomach and the well-defined pecs dusted with dark hair. His nipples were hidden behind opaque lace roses but their peaks gave it an added dimension. Tiny straps lead over his shoulder, just at the spot where Sherlock’s trapezius met his clavicle. John’s mouth watered at the thought of hooking his thumbs under those straps and pushing them off Sherlock's creamy shoulders..

On up the column of Sherlock’s neck, over the slightly stubbled jut of his jaw, John’s gaze traveled until his eyes met Sherlock’s. John drew in a sharp breath; his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. Sherlock had applied the black eyeliner that started this whole … what was it? _Seduction?_ Yes, this whole seduction. This time Sherlock’d used a heavier hand. Thick lines of kohl outlined his upper lids, blended expertly into the base of his lashes. Slightly thinner lines underscored his lower lashes. Sherlock had smudged the lines on his lower lids slightly. It was _sexy as fuck._

John had planned to take it slow, savor the chance to finally touch those acres of pale skin covered in stretch lace. He’d been dreaming about this all week but all thoughts of restraint went out the window when he saw that smudged kohl under Sherlock’s eyes. Pulling off his shirt, John flung it violently aside and shucked his trousers and pants in one motion, tripping in his haste to untangle them from his feet.

He’d been flustered for a week but this was familiar territory. All the uncertainty John had felt the past few days evaporated. 

Sherlock set the cigarette on the bedside table then swung his legs over the side of the bed to watch John undress. John watched while tugging at the tangle of fabric trapping his feet. 

The hem of the camisole rucked up a few inches from Sherlock's maneuver. When he was finally free, John stepped between Sherlock’s knees and placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He paused to look into Sherlock’s black-rimmed eyes. Sherlock smiled again. John smiled back, enjoying the rare treat of looking down at him. “What do you want?” John husked.

Sherlock winked up at John. “Do you need a billboard?”

John lowered his face to Sherlock’s neck, inhaling sandalwood-and-smoke but not touching, and breathed hot against Sherlock’s skin. “Tell me,” he murmured.

Sherlock arched into John’s words, forcing his tender pulsepoint against John’s lips. “John. You. _Obviously._ ”

John danced his fingers along the strip of flesh between the camisole and knickers. “Can I … touch you?” 

Sherlock shivered. He nodded. John slowly kissed up Sherlock’s neck. He paused to blow on the wet trail he’d left behind. He skimmed his right hand up Sherlock’s side, over the lace, thumb grazing the nipple with his thumb and continuing upward until his hand settled on Sherlock’s neck. The tips of his fingers traced circles at Sherlock’s nape, teasing the curl that had mocked John all week.

“Like this?” John asked. Sherlock shivered and nodded again.

“Kiss me.” Sherlock’s voice left baritone behind and fell into double bass range. 

John took his time and kissed up the side of Sherlock’s jaw, the tender spot just in front of his ear, his temple, the his brow, the faint line at the bridge of his nose. At last John placed the softest, most tender of kisses on Sherlock’s lips. He drew back and watched Sherlock slowly open his eyes; his dilated pupils contracted in reaction to the light. 

“Good?” John stroked Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb.

“Very.”

A smile spread across John’s lips, which made it difficult to kiss Sherlock properly, but he gave it a valiant try. 

Soon Sherlock was smiling, too, with laughter bubbling up soon after. “I look ridiculous.” 

“You look amazing.”

“I look like a …”

“Stop.”

“John…”

“Just. Stop talking now.” John once again attached his lips to Sherlock’s neck, threaded his arms around Sherlock’s torso, lowered them both onto the bed on their sides and pushed a knee between Sherlock’s. “Does this,” he rolled his pelvis into Sherlock’s, “feel like I think you look ridiculous?”

A surprised noise huffed from Sherlock’s throat. John could feel his own answering arousal. 

“I like that I’m the only one who’s seen you this way.” John lifted his head away from Sherlock’s neck to give him a quizzical look. “I am, right?”

“John. Of course you are.” Sherlock huffed a chuckle.

“Good.” John resumed his perusal of Sherlock’s carotid pulse. He smoothed the lace down Sherlock’s sides. He slid his hand around to the small of Sherlock’s back, hand spanning the top of the smooth satin knickers, the hem of the camisole and the bare skin between. He pulled Sherlock tight, sliding his own erection over the smooth satin encasing Sherlock’s.

Sherlock moaned.

“Do you,” John paused to savor the feeling of satin smoothing the slide of their cocks. “Like this?” 

“Mmmm.” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. “Yes.”

John squirmed lower down Sherlock’s body, pausing to lave his nipple through lace. He alternated sucking and gently nipping the hard peak until he rose to an elbow to give the other nipple equal attention. Sherlock sighed his appreciation and John drew away and glanced up to find Sherlock watching with kohl rimmed intensity. 

“Can I…”

Enthusiastic nodding. “Yes.” Sherlock answered, voice breathy. 

Lower, lower John's lips trailed - until his nose was level with Sherlock’s navel and he nuzzled the shallow depression through the lace. Sherlock’s rectus abdominis contracted. Lower still, John breathed against the outline of Sherlock’s half-hard cock through black satin. He wrapped his lips around to mouth along the shaft through the slick fabric, feeling Sherlock grow harder under his lips, and threaded his lower hand under Sherlock’s hip to take a handful of his lush arse and squeeze. Sherlock groaned. 

John pressed his upper hand on Sherlock’s hip, rolling him him onto his back again while he continued to wet the front of Sherlock’s tight knickers with saliva. The head of Sherlock’s cock now protruded from the waistband; the stretch lace trim pulled tight over his frenulum. John thumbed the lace, gently massaging Sherlock’s sensitive skin through it while still mouthing his shaft through satin. Sherlock’s hips bucked of their own accord. He threw an arm over his eyes and moaned. Loud. John left his thumb in place, rubbing circles through the lace, while he lifted his head to watch Sherlock’s reaction. 

“I want you to watch me," John growled

Sherlock shoved the arm over his eyes up to his forehead and met John’s eyes. The black eyeliner that he’d intentionally smudged under his eyes was now even messier; John licked his lips. He crawled up Sherlock’s body and straddled his hips and ground against the wet satin covering Sherlock’s cock. John nibbled at Sherlock's lips, sucking softly, opening Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and plunging his own in. Sherlock rolled his hips upward, shoving his hardness against John's hardness. 

“What.” John kissed Sherlock’s jaw. “Do you want?”

“I want to get these knickers off before the waistband gives me the circumcision my parents opted against when I was a baby.” 

John giggled. He sat up and skimmed his hands from Sherlock’s clavicles to his waist, tracing the pattern in the lace. He scooted back until he could see the lace band at the top of the stockings. Leaning forward, John hooked his thumbs in the waistband of the black satin knickers; Sherlock raised his hips slightly to ease John’s way so he could skim them slowly down to unveil Sherlock’s cock. He stopped when Sherlock’s bollocks were still encased in satin. 

Sherlock’s cock lay against his stomach, flushed rose pink, the skin shiny-tight, foreskin partially retracted, exposing the reddened glans. The knickers had left a dark red stripe underscoring the head. John cupped Sherlock’s bollocks through satin. He gently rolled and tugged and slid the slick fabric over sensitive skin. Sherlock’s cock twitched.

“You look.” John ran the tip of his tongue around the dark stripe the knickers had left on Sherlock's shaft. “Amazing.”

Sherlock groaned.

John stroked Sherlock’s thigh with one hand as he resumed fondling Sherlock’s bollocks through the knickers with the other. He slipped the tips of his fingers under the band at the top of the stocking, ran it around to the back of Sherlock’s thigh and pulled. Sherlock lifted his legs and wound them around John’s body. With Sherlock's ankles ankles locked behind his back, John took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. He slowly slid down to bury his nose in the dark curls at its base. Swallowing, arching his tongue against the shaft, John slowly slid up its length.

Sherlock propped on his elbows to watch.

John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s as he slowly sucked him down again. Sherlock’s lips parted; John could see the tip of his tongue just inside his lower lip and he watched a flush creep up from Sherlock’s collarbones, over his neck and color his cheeks as John continued to slowly suck. Up and down, slow and wet and steady; John felt Sherlock’s bollocks tighten under the black satin. He slid the hand that had been caressing Sherlock’s thigh to the base of his cock and stroked in time with his bobbing. 

“Can you come like this?” John kept up his steady strokes. 

Sherlock nodded.

“I want to see you.” John sat up and moved his hand faster, sliding his palm over the tip with every third stroke. 

Sherlock tensed, then relaxed as the first spurt of translucent white fluid striped the lace over his belly. John watched, enthralled, as stripe after stripe soaked the front of the black camisole. He glanced up at Sherlock's face - his eyes were closed and his lips, reddened from kissing, parted slightly to let out a low, rumbling moan.

John remembered to breathe again when the pulses subsided.

“God that was beautiful.” John’s voice was, rough and strained. “Open your eyes.” John gave Sherlock’s cock one last stroke before he rose to his knees. Sherlock's legs slipped from John’s waist to sprawl across the mattress but he remained propped on his elbows. He opened his eyes and watched as John rubbed his palm through the mess on his stomach, smearing. 

John grasped his own cock with his come-slick hand and groaned, “Watch me.”

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. His brow furrowed in concentration as he rocked his hips into his fist. He kept his eyes on Sherlock’s and watched Sherlock trace the contour of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. John’s panting was loud in the quiet room.

“Come for me. Show me,” Sherlock murmured.

John did - copiously, on Sherlock's lace-clad stomach - then collapsed to the mattress beside Sherlock to catch his breath.

Sherlock sat up and tugged the hem of his sticky camisole. 

John caught his wrist. “Don’t. I Want to look at you.”

Sherlock smirked and laid back down. 

John rose to his elbow. His gaze swept Sherlock from lace-clad feet (God, those _feet_ ) to belly and lingered there. “Is it comfortable? This get-up?” 

“No, it Itches like mad.”

“Then why…”

“For you. Because it truly is considerably less expensive than a billboard. I checked the rates.”


End file.
